The Spice Trade

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In my neighborhood, not far from my house, is the Paradise Spice Company; I drive past it several times a week. It's not much to look at, just a large rectangular red brick building behind a chain link fence. There's nothing to cue you visually for the rich bouquet of fragrance carried on the slightest breeze, and if you're not expecting it, it comes as a complete surprise. Cumin, cardamom, cinnamon, cloves. Heady. Intoxicating...

I caught on long ago, and now I roll down my window in anticipation, incline my head, and inhale deeply as many times as I can manage before the light changes and I must move on. I imagine what it might be like inside: clouds of saffron, vats of turmeric.

Everything about these spices is lovely - the fragrances, the colors, the flavors, the names: nutmeg, ginger, anise. They conjure the rustle of silk, hot sun, clattering marketplaces. Smoky incense. The tinkle of tiny bells in the breeze, or on an ankle. Another world, mysterious, slightly dangerous, completely irresistible...

photos: rolagola.com, clubsnap.com, E-Mosaik.com, flickr.com/photos/cocokelley,

genuinestyle.net (& 9), visualizeus.com, treat.typepad.com, magazine.continental.com,

roxxn.wordpress.com, sawf.org, jubella.com, kellyoshiroevents.com (x2),

evrimgallery.com, limeyg.blogspot.com, ehow.com

Thy plants are an orchard of pomegranates, with pleasant fruits; camphire, with spikenard,

Spikenard and saffron; calamus and cinnamon, with all trees of frankincense;

myrrh and aloes, with all the chief spices:

A fountain of gardens, a well of living waters, and streams from Lebanon.

- Song of Solomon 4:13

http://confessionsofasineater.blogspot.com/

the color of truth...

The leaves this autumn have been truly spectacular - brilliant gold, crimson, butterscotch - colors so bright and saturated they appear lit from within. Luminous.

The show reached its peak last weekend, every tree and bush ablaze with color. Then came several days and nights of wind and rain, and we awoke to a world of near bare branches. It's grey now, with streaks of deepening orange. I like these colors, too.

photos: mine, decorpad.com (& 7), ShadedMemories.etsy.com, life.com,

brokesy.etsy.com, digital-photography-school.com, troelsandersenstudio.com,

twolia.com, coutureallure.blogspot.com, aCatsNest.etsy.com, womensmag.com

"The color of truth is grey." ~ Andre Gide

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Weave well the bright threads...

Cozy, comforting tartan. Most people (outside of Scotland) don't realize the long and sometimes heartbreaking history behind true tartan, but its appeal is undeniably strong, nonetheless.

My clan tartan (Gordon):

photos: dreamhousecammy.blogspot.com via thelisaportercollection.blogspot.com,

strathmorewoollen.co.uk, style-magnet.blogspot.com, unknown,

newyorksocialdiary.com, housetohome.co.uk (& 14), lochness.com,

willowmanor.blogspot.com, apartmenttherapy.com (& 19),

thefashionpolice.net, 5thandstate.blogspot.com, daddylikey.blogspot.com,

citified.blogspot.com (& 18),splendicity.com, sorchastore.com,

ladychrystel.com, tartansauthority.com

The Weaving of the Tartan

I saw an old Dame weaving,

Weaving, weaving

I saw an old Dame weaving,

A web of tartan fine.

"Sing high," she said, "sing low," she said,

"Wild torrent to the sea,

That saw my exiled bairnies torn,

In sorrow far frae me.

And warp well the long threads,

The bright threads, the strong threads;

Woof well the cross threads,

To make the colours shine."

She wove in red for every deed,

Of valour done for Scotia's need:

She wove in green, the laurel's sheen,

In memory of her glorious dead.

She spake of Alma's steep incline,

The desert march, the "thin red line,"

Of how it fired the blood and stirred the heart,

Where'er a bairn of hers took part.

"'Tis for the gallant lads," she said,

"Who wear the kilt and tartan plaid:

'Tis for the winsome lasses too,

Just like my dainty bells of blue.

So weave well the bright threads,

The red threads, the green threads;

Woof well the strong threads

That bind their hearts to mine."

I saw an old Dame sighing,

Sighing, sighing;

I saw an old Dame sighing,

Beside a lonely glen.

"Sing high," she said, "sing low," she said,

Wild tempests to the sea,

The wailing of the pibroch's note,

That bade farewell to me.

And wae fa' the red deer,

The swift deer, the strong deer,

Wae fa' the cursed deer,

That take the place o' men."

Where'er a noble deed is wrought,

Where'er the brightest realms of thought,

The artists' skill, the martial thrill,

Be sure to Scotia's land is wed.

She casts the glamour of her name,

O'er Britain's throne and statesman's fame;

From distant lands 'neath foreign names,

Some brilliant son his birthright claims.

For ah! - she has reared them amid tempests,

And cradled them in snow,

To give the Scottish arms their strength,

Their hearts a kindly glow.

So weave well the bright threads,

The red threads, the green threads.

Woof well the strong threads

That bind their hearts to thine.

-Alice MacDonnell, 1894

http://www.tartansauthority.com

http://confessionsofasineater.blogspot.com/